


that pulse of my nights and days

by Ark



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Smut, With Apologies to Plato
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 14:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: Aziraphale laughs, the delighted, breathy giggle he gives after his second bottle of champagne. “Such a shame we didn’t come to this sooner,” he says, pulling back and—oh, naughty angel!—increasing the length and girth of his cock when he pushes back in. Crowley gasps, and Aziraphale—greedy, too!—tilts in to swallow the sound from his lips, flicks his tongue against Crowley’s as though chasing after the flavor of this elongated pleasure.





	that pulse of my nights and days

**Author's Note:**

> Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot,  
> And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,  
> And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days.  
> —Whitman

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” murmurs Aziraphale.

Crowley jolts at those words—an ill-remembered exchange—but Aziraphale’s expression is as sly as it is beatific above him. Crowley is meant to smile back, he knows, at the irony, and perhaps try to gain a little self-control over the desperate stuttering of his hips. It’s a gentler reprimand than it was once before.

“Sorry, sorry,” Crowley manages. “I’ll just—” 

“We have all the time we like now,” Aziraphale reminds, as he reaches to brush Crowley’s sweat-damp hair back from his brow. “All the time in this world, which has quite skirted the apocalypse, and in whatever worlds there are to explore together after that.” 

When Crowley succeeds in slowing his body’s frantic pace, Aziraphale rewards him with a long, hard, smooth thrust. It hits just right—all of Aziraphale’s thrusts are perfect, as though guided by a divine hand—and it feels like nothing has the right to feel. His body isn’t meant for such ceaseless stimulation, for that flawless, untiring cock thrust home again and again. He isn’t intended for ecstasies.

Crowley isn’t made for this, for the exquisite weight of Aziraphale on top of him, for the heavy-lidded way that Aziraphale is watching him. He started rushing, he thinks, because it’s so hard to bear that this is for him, that this is his. 

Now Crowley stills his hips under great duress, for the thought occurs that he is _blessed._

“That’s it, dearest,” says Aziraphale, bending low to kiss him as he rocks forward. “Oh, I could stay inside of you for days and days.” 

He really could, Crowley is beginning to understand. Crowley is mentally clearing his schedule for the week so that they might proceed with such a plan sooner rather than later. He tries to vocalize this with some degree of coolness. 

“I’m available,” he says, promptly failing.

Aziraphale laughs, the delighted, breathy giggle he gives after his second bottle of champagne. “Such a shame we didn’t come to this sooner,” he says, pulling back and—oh, naughty angel!—increasing the length and girth of his cock when he pushes back in. Crowley gasps, and Aziraphale—greedy, too!—tilts in to swallow the sound from his lips, flicks his tongue against Crowley’s as though chasing after the flavor of this elongated pleasure. 

“I’ve thought that for some six thousand years,” Crowley hears himself say when Aziraphale lets them pretend to need air again, and, _damn_ it all if kissing angels doesn’t wrench out entirely unplanned confessions.

“Surely you mean less than six,” says Aziraphale, looking flustered for the first time in this endeavor. He’d taken to the suggestion of fucking like the well-read hedonist he was (“Oh, my. Shall we really, my dear? There’s so very much I’d like to try, so much I’ve wondered about—”), but Crowley’s words make the tips of Aziraphale’s ears go a surprised pink.

“This isn’t a time for maths,” Crowley tries to say crossly, which is impossible because Aziraphale slides his hands to Crowley’s hips and grips there for purchase before thrusting in harder. “Ah. Ah- _ziraphale_ —!”

“Have you waited so long as that?” Aziraphale is going to make him spill again, all but untouched save the angelic cock buried deep, then deeper still. “Why didn’t you say—no, no, that isn’t it,” he self-corrects. “Of course you said so, in so many different ways. I wasn’t listening right, was I?”

“Could be you weren’t ready to hear it,” Crowley hedges, since it no longer hurts to think on lost years, since they’re here at last, since Aziraphale is properly occupying the space now Crowley always knew was his. “I don’t _care_ about the wait, angel, s’long as you don’t _stop_.”

“How could I,” says Aziraphale, “when you fit me so well?” He snaps in a brilliant thrust for emphasis, and then another, and another, and another, and Crowley is going to clear his schedule for a _century_. It’s possible, but unconfirmed, that he says so aloud.

What Crowley definitely says, as he tries to keep the shocked thrill from his voice, is “So fussy about your tailoring,” and he’s rewarded with a bruise sucked tenderly beneath the hinge of his jaw that will bloom black-purple-blue.

Then Aziraphale studies Crowley’s face to fuck him at an angle so good and so indecent it should be impossible that this could be Aziraphale’s first try, or an angel’s doing at all. He moves like the unerring swell of the tide, reads Crowley’s body like a book. For a moment all is quiet, save the motion of one against the other, one inside the other, two turned into one—but really, this is no time at all for maths, and Crowley discovers that he cannot bear to be without Aziraphale’s commentary, not even for another moment, not even in this. 

“Please,” Crowley pants, unable to articulate what he’s asking for. There’s no real way to ask it: _Please, never stop, don’t ever stop, and never stop going off at the mouth the way you do, it’s the only thing that keeps me fixed to Earth, your voice is all I’ve looked for, how I lived is that I followed the sound of you—_

“What is it that I can do for you, dear boy? Do I tarry too long? Or should you like to turn onto your hands and knees? I knew a vase-painter in Greece who made that all the rage, you know—or would you prefer to sit astride me a while? Or, we could attempt—”

“Just like that,” Crowley bites out. “Just like that. Keep talking.”

“That I can do easily,” says Aziraphale, pleased as though he’s been handed a bowl of fresh-picked strawberries and cream. He kisses a path up Crowley’s neck that ends at his ear, and there he whispers, like a secret: “I know every story that was written, and all those that were sung. Do you recall that first Thursday when I came up with the idea of poetry? They’re mine to keep as well. Plays are the most charming to recite. Ask it, and I will speak each and every one to you, all the words I know, when we are like this.”

“Like this?” parrots Crowley. He’s dizzy with literary possibilities. 

“Hmm. Restored, as it were,” Aziraphale says, with a punctuating thrust in the middle of the sentence, “from being torn asunder.”

Crowley closes his eyes, and Aziraphale feathers the lightest of kisses across his eyelids. Then he puts on his reading voice, and he says, “ _’As they were powerful and unruly and threatening to scale the heavens, Zeus devised to cut them into two like a sorb-apple which is halved for pickling, and even threatened to cut them into two again, so that they might hop on one leg._ ’”

“Plato was a bit of a wanker,” Crowley says, wrinkling his nose to mask the thudding of his heart. “Good parties, though.”

“‘ _After that, human beings longed for their other half so much that they searched for it all over. When they found it, they wrapped themselves around it very tightly and did not let go._ ’” Aziraphale stops quoting, but he doesn’t stop his body’s motion. Crowley opens his eyes to find Aziraphale’s gaze bright-eyed and shining to the point of tears. “Oh, _Crowley._ ”

“I didn’t say he had bad ideas,” Crowley says hastily, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek in his hand. “I didn’t say that. Apples again, sure, but otherwise, I like their origin story better than the one we got.”

“You know it?”

“Symposiums were one of mine, sweetheart.” Crowley clears his throat, searches his memory for the rest of the speech. “ _’Zeus took pity on the poor creatures, and moved their genitals to the front so that those who were previously androgynous could procreate, and those who were previously male could obtain satisfaction and move on to higher things._ ’”

Aziraphale frowns. “It’s terribly sexist when you say it like that.”

“Not on me,” Crowley says, and he traces the downturn of Aziraphale’s frown with his thumb. “Take it up with Aristophanes. Okay, okay. How about, erm— _‘When we find our other half, we are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy that cannot be accounted for by a simple appetite for sex, but rather by a desire to be whole again, and restored to our original nature._ ’ How’s that?”

“That’s _much_ better.” Now Aziraphale is practically purring, the frown vanquished; a smile curves under Crowley’s thumb. If that’s the reaction to a little Greek philosophy memorized in dull years, Crowley decides maybe the recitations _when they’re like this_ should go both ways. Worth brushing up on his reading. 

Crowley’s cock twitches against his belly, ready for his fourth—or is it fifth?—release of the night at the mere thought of Aziraphale’s tongue wrapped around an ode, with his blazing eyes on Crowley’s eyes and the singular gravity of Aziraphale upon him and Aziraphale’s perfect cock— “Did you just get _bigger_? _Again_? 

A cheeky cherub’s grin. “Perhaps. I’m trying to find just what you need for complete satisfaction.”

“Angel,” says Crowley, “I’m looking at it.”

“Really,” says Aziraphale. He brushes his lips over Crowley’s, then spectacularly speeds their pace. “ _Do_ go on. Flattery will get you—”

“Come with me again,” Crowley says. Demons don’t beg, they’re not supposed to, so it’s not begging unless he calls it that. “Come inside me, then come again. Still be in me in the morning, when you’ll absolutely come yet again—and I’ll tell you everything I never told you for six thousand years about wanting you. I’ve got poems you’ve never read, songs you never heard. I know because I wrote them. Volumes. Libraries. A discography from the sixties. Believe it. Or don’t. I’ll write them again on your skin.”

“You didn’t,” moans Aziraphale, his next thrust still unparalleled but landing with an excited gait. “You _did_. You frightfully adorable creature. We do have enough material to tide us over in bed for a good while, don’t we?”

“All the while this world’s got left, love,” Crowley says. “And a good deal more after that.”

**Author's Note:**

> *the speech is from aristophanes' myth on the origins of love from plato's _symposium_. i endorse hedwig's version.
> 
> **i'm on tumblr: <http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com>, probably staring at michael sheen's mouth. join me!


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